Danger Signals

'Hi, honey, it's me.'

'Cory! Wow it's really early out there. Where are you? What's-is anything wrong? Did you see him? Talk to him? How did it go? For heaven's sake, say something, damn it. I've been waiting all night for you to call.'

'Samantha, dearest, I will say something if you'll let me.'

'Okay.' There was a pause, and some heavy breathing. 'I'm shutting up now. Your turn.'

'Well then, to answer your questions in order. I'm sitting in a rental car-a Honda Civic. I think-in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. Nothing's wrong. Yes, I saw him. No, I didn't talk to him. and it didn't 'go' at all.'

'Okay…and you are about to tell me why, right, Pearse?'

'I chickened out, Sam.' His wife, understanding him well and knowing how fragile he was right now, didn't press. He laughed the way people do when nothing's funny, drew in a breath and blew it out audibly. 'I feel like a complete idiot, but I couldn't do it. I drove up and parked across the street from the house. I could see a light on in his apartment, so I knew he was home. And I couldn't make myself go in there.'

'Oh, Cory.'

'The guy's a cop, Sam. Those guys are hard-wired to be suspicious. What's he going to do when some stranger walks up to him and says, 'Hi, I'm your big brother'? A brother he hasn't seen since he was six years old and probably doesn't remember. At this point I have no proof. Nothing whatsoever to back that up.'

'What about Holt Kincaid? His files-'

'…Will document a search based on my knowledge that I have four siblings somewhere in this world. Wade Callahan evidently has no such knowledge. According to his employment and school records, he's only got one brother, a year and a half younger, named Matthew. I can't just spring this on him, not until I have something to offer besides my crazy story.' He gave a brief snort of laughter. 'If I keep up like I've been doing, he's liable to shoot me for a burglar or arrest me for stalking.'

'What do you mean, like you've been doing? What did you do?'

'What did I do? I sat in front of his house in my car, that's what I did. And this morning he almost caught me.'

'You sat in your car? All night? Good Lord, Pearse, you're an investigative journalist. You've covered wars, revolutions, genocide, interviewed terrorists, dictators, heads of state. And you're telling me-'

'He's my little brother, Sam.'

There was a long pause, then a sigh. 'I know, love.'

'I let him down.'

'Cory, you didn't. He was taken away from you. You were a child yourself. What could you have done?'

'I should have found a way. I was supposed to protect them-all of them. And I let them split us up. Now…I've got a chance to get us back together.'

'You will, Pearse. I know you will.'

'But I have to do this right. I can't screw it up, Sam. This time I have to get it right.'

Wade arrived at the downtown station out of sorts and running late, nursing a sore elbow and limping slightly, thanks to the contact-harder than first realized-a couple of his appendages had made with the flagstones during his early morning foray. The task force was assembled in the briefing room, evidently waiting for him, which right away ticked him off.

Ed Francks handed him a black armband when he walked in. then gave him a sideways look that slid down to his gimpy leg and back up again. Being wise and experienced, the older man didn't say anything.

One of the younger detectives, though, an import from the northeast named Rudy…something Italian, apparently wasn't smart enough to follow the veteran cop's lead. He sang out, 'Hey, Boss, what happened to your leg?' and for his concern got a glare that would have frozen up Old Faithful.

'In the first place, Detective. I'm not your boss,' Wade growled, then expanded the glare to take in the rest of the room. 'What is this, kindergarten? You gotta have your teacher hold your hand before you can go to the John?'

There was some uneasy stirring and shifting around, but nobody said anything.

Muttering to himself, Wade turned his back on the lot of them while he slipped the armband up his sleeve. This brought him face to face with the board, upon which the latest crime scene photos had already been posted. Above these, and partly obscuring the most grisly, someone had tacked a large photograph of Officer Alicia Williams in her dress uniform. She was smiling, her slightly slanted black eyes sparkling beneath the brim of her hat, looking like she had the world by the tail and a good life ahead of her.

Damn.

He took a deep breath, tapped the photograph, then turned. 'All right, ladies and gentlemen, in case anybody needs reminding, this is why we're here. What may or may not be wrong with my leg is not the business of this task force. Finding a killer-now a cop killer-is. Now, somebody want to be the first to tell me I've got reason to believe we might catch this sonofabitch today?'

After that the briefing proceeded along pretty much normal lines. Reports: canvases had turned up no witnesses, autopsy results were roughly the same as with all the other victims; CSI had found no useful trace evidence on or near the victim. The remnants of Officer Williams's burned uniform were being processed for DNA, which would take a while-a lot longer than it did on TV forensics procedurals, for sure.

Family members and friends of the earlier victims were being re-interviewed to determine whether any of them ever had occasion to wear a uniform, on the job or off. Results so far: vic number three, the retired schoolteacher, had been working part-time as a crossing guard at a busy intersection near her house. Vic number two was a city bus driver, and yes, they wore uniforms. Vic number one, the former army private turned college student, had been supplementing her G.I. Bill working nights as a security guard at a popular downtown nightclub.

Wade nodded. ''Number five-that's the docent. Six, Officer Williams. We have anything for number four?'

'Working on it.' Rudy the Italian muttered, thumbing through his notes.

Wade stared at the notes he'd scrawled on the board, and an old familiar tingle crawled up his backbone. There was something here. He was close, he knew it. If he could only… He wondered if Tierney might… Ah, hell. What was he doing? Using the woman as a crutch instead of depending on his own intelligence? She'd given him the uniform connection, what more did he want?

The uniform connection. He's timid, a mouse, Tierney said. He's most likely been abused by someone wearing a uniform. It represents oppression to him. What if…

He rapped a knuckle on the board where he'd written each victim's occupation involving a uniform, then jerked around to face the room.

'How 'bout this,' he said, his voice strong and certain for the first time in a while-since this case had been handed to him. 'Each of these victims would have been in a position to confront someone, cause them trouble, interfere with their plans, give them grief. Right? Maybe the bus driver won't let somebody on her bus because he doesn't have exact change. The museum docent…hell. I don't know, maybe she makes someone put out a cigarette, or chews him out for taking flash photos. You guys doing the interviews-go back and ask if they know if any of the victims reported trouble with anyone recently.'

'Wait… Igot something here-' Rudy had been flipping frantically back through his notes. 'Yeah…right here. First victim's mom mentioned something about an altercation at the club the weekend before she was killed. Some guy gave her a hard time because she wouldn't let him in.'

Wade exhaled gustily. 'Okay. Say, the club doorkeeper denies our killer entrance. Ticks him off. She was the first vic-that could have been the trigger.' He snapped his fingers, his mind racing now, almost too fast for his mouth to keep pace. 'Okay, Rudy, stay on those interviews. Ochoa and Washburn, go back through Officer Williams's traffic citations over the last few weeks. Eliminate everybody that doesn't fit the profile-that would be women, men with families-wives and kids. Anybody over fifty.'

Martin Ochoa, who'd been busily scribbling notes, lifted his head. 'So, we got a profile now? When did we come up with that?'

Ochoa's partner from Robbery-Homicide. Larry Washburn, nudged him and grinned. 'I bet he got it from his crystal ball. Hey, Callahan, where is that crystal ball of yours today?'

Wade gave that the response it deserved, which was a stone-cold stare. 'May I remind all of you comedians